A hiker on the moors of England spotted a tavern at the top of a hill, and made for it. When the hiker entered, he saw that the tavern was empty, except for the bartender. The hiker ordered a Guinness, introduced himself, and asked what the barkeep was called.

“Did you notice the fence on the path up here?” asked the bartender.

“I did,” the hiker said. “It’s a fine, straight fence and very well made. It led me up here, in fact.”

“I built that fence, every foot of it,” the bartender said. “But do they call me Frank the Fence-Builder? No, they do not. . . . What do you think about this bar?”

“I’ve been admiring it,” said the hiker. “It looks like one unbroken slab of mahogany.”

“That it is,” said the bartender. “I made this bar with my own hands. But do they call me Brown the Bar-Builder? No, they do not. . . . What do you think about the way I pulled your pint?”

“You did a great job,” said the hiker. “Not too much of a head, not too little. I’d say it was perfectly poured. But I guess they don’t call you Frank the Ale-Puller?”

“No, they do not,” said the bartender sadly. “But let me tell you, you f—k just one measly goat. . . .”